


Of Gentlemen & Scones

by Darkling_Moth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Badgers, Scones, Tea, lord of the manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkling_Moth/pseuds/Darkling_Moth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UsUk secret santa 2015 for Just_a_Fangirl. Prompt: Alfred is a butler/gardener at the estate where Arthur Kirkland is the rich son. Being set in the Victorian era, their feelings for each other are forbidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Gentlemen & Scones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Just_a_Fangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_a_Fangirl/gifts).



“Young Master Kirkland,” the head butler announced the name in the great hall. It echoed over the statuary, into the turrets, vibrating against every leaded glass pane on the tall windows.  
Alfred felt something flutter in his stomach and he nervously smoothed the waistcoat he wore though it had been pressed to perfection only minutes earlier.  
Outside it was a typical foggy late spring day. Alfred could barely make out the carriage beyond the open doors and could not see any distinguishing features on the figure walking in until he was standing almost in front of him.  
During Alfred’s childhood they had been friends; the elder boy allowing the orphan to accompany him and his friends in sport and outings to the country. It felt so long ago, yet Alfred could remember it as if it had been yesterday. He’d always felt a special bond with Arthur; something which carried over the years they had been apart while Arthur was studying abroad even though they hadn’t seen each other for ages.  
Alfred wondered if Arthur would remember their adventures fondly or if everything would be awkward now that he was no longer a child. After all, Alfred was not only a ward but had recently become a footman in training in the grand house that was to someday be Arthur’s inheritance.  
Everyone around bowed or curtsied respectively. When Alfred straightened up he was surprised to see he was easily a head taller than Arthur who stood across from him looking a bit bewildered.  
Arthur muttered something low under his breath which sounded a lot like, “My, you’ve grown.” But when Emerson, the head butler, gracefully took his coat and gloves, inquiring, “Pardon me, m’lord?”  
Arthur only said, “I’m quite tired. I think I’ll retire until supper.”  
“Very good, sir.”  
And with that, Arthur was whisked away upstairs leaving Alfred with a strange sort of dizzy feeling, wondering if he had actually noticed him at all.

 

Dinner was a grand preparation and Alfred was spared any excess time to fret as he was needed for so many small tasks he had not even comprehended. This was to be his first actual meal since he began his apprenticeship and although Emerson had painstakingly walked him through all the steps he feared he would muck something up. He was rather big and a bit clumsy in everything except sport and all the fancy dishes looked so small and delicate in his hands he was afraid of breaking them just by looking at them.  
The fluttery feeling in his stomach had not totally abated even in the chaos of distraction and Alfred was reminded of it’s source when Cook yelled for him to fetch her the tureen “up high” on the shelf (he was always being asked to retrieve things ‘up high’ being the tallest member of the staff). He walked in to hear a snippet of conversation between a group of maids, commentary on ‘Master Arthur’s simply gorgeous green eyes’ followed by a flood of giggles.  
This made his stomach suddenly clench up and he didn’t know why. They were grown now. Of course the girls would find Arthur attractive. He was trim, handsome, and did have brilliant green eyes. There were probably dozens- hundreds- of girls across the country (and maybe the world, too, Alfred reminded himself) giggling over his Master’s good looks and impeccable manners. And there were probably dozens of girls Arthur found attractive.  
Clench. It was like being kicked from the inside.  
Alfred tried to ignore it. Perhaps he had eaten some bad kippers for breakfast. He still wasn’t used to the food here. Yes, that must be it.

 

Alfred was thankful for the candlelight as he entered the dining room, carrying a tray of prawns. He could feel the colour rise to his cheeks as he approached Arthur’s seat and didn’t want anyone to observe that his face was roughly the hue of the crustaceans he carried.  
Arthur only half-acknowledged him with a nod, never looking up, and continuing a conversation with one of the guests across from him. Alfred returned to the kitchen, thankful that the first course was over. It was going to be a long night.  
The second and third courses went well, though Alfred found himself extremely exhausted as the night wore on. Was he to expect this kind of extravagance often? He supposed so. He was still learning the ropes and constantly looked to Emerson for approval. Occasionally he was awarded with a not-entirely-disapproving grunt.  
“Dessert will be served in the drawing room,” Emerson announced, directing half of the staff to clear and the other to prepare the mousse and brandy.

 

When Alfred spotted Arthur across the drawing room, he immediately recognized the elderly women cornering him. Two rich dowagers distantly related to the family. Busybodies. Arthur was looking trapped and not a little frightened.  
Alfred scrambled to find an excuse to interrupt. He noticed Arthur had no dessert and grabbed the largest mousse still on the serving tray and made a beeline to the group.  
The dowagers looked more like peacocks than women, stooped at the waist and wearing a greater number of feathers than bequeathed to actual birds. He swooped up to one side of Arthur, determined to be the hero and save the day, but instead he heard one of the women say-  
“Splendid! So when do you intend to formally announce the engagement?”  
Alfred had that clenching feeling in his stomach again, but this time it seemed to go all the way down to his feet. Before he knew what was happening, he had dropped the chocolate mousse straight onto Arthur’s lap, spraying sticky clots of goo all across his suit as well as the bodice of the woman who had just spoken.

“OhmygoodnessI’msososososorry,” Alfred blurted out, grabbing the nearest absorbent item (which happened to be a doily holding up an heirloom vase which narrowly missed breaking on the floor) and flinging it over Arthur’s lap, beginning to pat vigorously before turning an even deeper shade of red and taking a step back, horrified,“Er-“  
One of the dowagers was blotting the stain on her dress, muttering, “He should be sacked. Or at least disciplined.”  
Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush, though he avoided eye contact with Alfred and muttered under his breath, standing and politely excusing himself.  
Emerson had rushed to his side, exclaiming, “I will fetch a towel, sir.”  
Arthur waved the head butler away, “No need, Emerson. I’ll need a full change of clothes. Let Alfred attend to me- this was his doing. Let him remedy his mistake.”  
Alfred followed Arthur out of the drawing room with Emerson and the dowagers staring daggers at him the whole way.  
When they were out in the darkened and empty hall, Arthur whipped around, brows furrowed (Alfred had forgotten just how formidable his eyebrows actually were) and Alfred braced himself for a reprimand.  
Instead, Arthur said, “Thank you.”  
Alfred blinked, mouth agape, “Wha-“  
“I know what you were trying to do… There must have been other ways of saving me from that conversation than drenching me in chocolate soufflé, however… Bloody idiot.”  
Alfred followed him up to his rooms, unsure of how to interpret their last exchange. Arthur had always been more serious than he was.  
He realised as he opened the door for Arthur that he had no idea what to do next. He was not a head butler, not a personal butler… Obviously he dressed himself in the morning but that was a far cry from dressing someone else- especially when that someone was Master Arthur Kirkland.  
Alfred swallowed.

Before he’d closed the door behind them, Arthur was already unbuttoning his vest.  
“Er- um, shouldn’t I be doing that?” Alfred nervously rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to proceed.  
Arthur snapped, “I can undress myself, I’m not an imbecile.”  
“But why-“  
“So we could talk,”Arthur cut him off. He was now fussing with the buttons on his shirt.  
If Alfred had not been worried about being sacked up to this point he certainly was now.  
“I’m sorry, Art- sir,” he stammered.  
“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other.”  
Alfred was debating if he had ever seen as much of Arthur as he was about to see. He felt he should look away for reasons of propriety. There was a strange silence permeating the room.  
“I was not informed you’d be working here,” Arthur added almost perfunctorily, “I thought you were still in school.”  
“No, Ar- sir,” Alfred mentally berated himself for making that mistake twice in a row now. “I was offered a position here.” He almost added ‘for financial reasons’ but realized that would be considered impropriety. Money was not freely discussed here, it was one of his glaringly American tendencies.  
Arthur had stopped what he was doing, one of his generous eyebrows raised, “I suppose you could call me Arthur when we’re in private. We’ve known each other all your life, after all.”  
“Best not,” Alfred stammered, “I should get used to calling you ‘sir’. Else I might slip up in front of the other servants.”  
Arthur nodded his approval, “True. Very well.”  
“I’m training to be a proper butler. I suppose I’m technically a footman. I’m surprised they offered me that, considering I’ve had no training whatsoever,” Alfred’s face flushed and he nervously adjusted his glasses, “I guess I’ve screwed even that up now-“  
“Damn-” Arthur was struggling with his cufflinks.  
Alfred, always the hero, went to the rescue and tried not to stare at Arthur’s leanly muscled chest and abs as he freed his wrists.  
“Thank you,” Arthur mumbled, “I’ll take it from here.”  
Alfred backed off again, “I am sorry about the pudding.”  
“Trifle, actually,” Arthur muttered.  
“It felt like a big deal- everyone looked pretty upset,” Alfred fretted.  
Arthur was giving him a disarming smile which he obviously was trying to suppress to no avail, “Trifle is the type of dessert, Alfred. I suppose your equivalent is pudding.”  
“Oh… But you have pudding, too. Made from blood or something, right? I saw one Cook had the other day,” Alfred was wrinkling his nose in disgust.  
Arthur gave an outright laugh before wiping the expression off his face. He was smoothing his thin fingers across the lapels of his fresh dinner jacket, “We’d best go back now. I must pretend to be cross with you.”  
Alfred wanted desperately to segue into asking about the conversation he had interrupted- who Arthur was to marry- but there seemed no good way to bring it up.  
“Yes, sir,” he said to a nod of cool approval from Arthur and they both headed back downstairs. 

 

Alfred waited in the kitchens, spooning half-heartedly at some manner of bland stew, cringing every time he heard the sound of footsteps in the distance- Emerson could appear at any time and Alfred feared the impending reprimand (though he figured his job at least was safe-Emerson wouldn’t dare sack him if Master Arthur didn’t want it). Still.  
He berated himself for his impetuous nature- he just wanted to save Arthur from embarrassment. All he intended to do was offer the man dessert and a polite interruption. He hadn’t meant to drench him in pudding (trifle, he corrected himself).  
What could he do to make it up to him? He wasn’t terribly good at baking but he knew Arthur loved scones. LOVED them.  
Alfred had abiding memories of sitting in the garden as a child, waiting for tea time, and the servants setting up a fancy table with tea and milk and sugar in little frosted cubes (lumps, they were called) and, of course, scones.  
Arthur always waited until the servants were gone then crammed scone after scone into his mouth with as little decorum as his upbringing would allow, slapping Alfred’s hand away if he reached for one. Then he would whine that “Alfred et all the scones, Nanny, and I didn’t get a single one”. Whereupon a fuss would be made, another plate brought (and set directly in front of Arthur) and Alfred would watch from elsewhere (usually nursing his boxed ears) in the garden as little Master Arthur meticulously spread jam on the scones before adding a dollop of clotted cream and popping them in his mouth. If Alfred was lucky and Arthur had his fill before the plate was empty, the younger boy was allowed to eat the leftover crumbs.  
Once, on a day when Alfred’s stomach had been particularly rumbly, he was not in the mood to play the game and when Arthur condescendingly told him he could ‘lick the saucer, you chubby git’ he had fashioned his own scones out of dirt (bits of rock substituting quite convincingly for black currants) and thrown them at Master Arthur’s smug face, shouting, “Here, eat these scones!”  
Nanny had made an untimely entrance and dragged Alfred off by the ear where he was forced to spend playtime in the corner without toys for the rest of the week, enduring Nanny’s comments of, “That’s what ye get, cheeky little lard.”  
So why had he returned to England? Alfred was shaken out of his reverie. With the exception of scone-related torments, his childhood hadn’t really been all that bad. Especially compared to what it could have been. And wasn’t that all the more reason to humble himself and make Arthur his favourite treat? He suspected it was.  
Footfalls crashed down the stairs and Alfred once again braced himself for the entrance of Emerson, but it was the flushed face of Cook which appeared in the doorway a moment later.  
“Oh, Alfred, I ‘erd what ‘appened upstairs,” she clicked her tongue at him. “It’s a blue wonder they ha’ent sacked you.”  
“Nor are they like to,” Emerson’s voice boomed behind her. The head butler’s footsteps must have been muted by Cook’s noisy entrance. His brow was predictably furrowed in disapproval, “It seems our Alfred here has found a soft spot in the young Master’s heart.”  
Alfred wasn’t sure why, but he felt another flutter in his stomach- that sensation which had been new just a day ago and was now occurring more and more often.  
“I’d like to do something to- to make it up to him,” Alfred stammered, “I was hoping you could help me, Cook.”  
“Not like I don’t ‘ave enough to do already!,” she exclaimed, though not unkindly.  
Alfred explained his idea.

The following day, at an ungodly early hour, Alfred paced the length of the kitchen, rubbing his flour-coated hands together and staring nervously at the oven. Nantucket, also covered in flour from where he’d nervously run his fingers through it while pouring over Cook’s recipe, spiked crazily out from his forehead.  
The first batch of scones came out of the oven a bit burnt. The second batch, however, were as toasty and golden-tinged as a perfect meringue and Alfred gave himself a silent pat on the back as he slid them off of the baking sheet and onto a plate. He furnished the tray with blackberry preserves and plenty of clotted cream, plus (of course) a small pot of Earl Grey. He had procured permission from Emerson to serve Master Arthur his private breakfast (the head butler no doubt approving of any attempt to compensate for the previous night’s embarrassment). Arthur was an early riser. No one knew what he did in his rooms in the wee hours of the morning, only that he sent for his breakfast tray no later than 6am.  
Alfred had an extra spring in his step as he headed toward Master Arthur’s rooms. He knocked briefly and, upon hearing shuffling inside, took the noise as admittance and promptly opened the door.  
There was an audible mutual gasp as Alfred, tea tray in hand, was met with a strange site.  
Master Arthur was in his dressing gown, pink clouds of bunny slippers visible beneath the hem, seated at a small loom… embroidering! His eyes widened to the size of tea saucers beneath his caterpillar-like brows and his face turned beet red with either fury or embarrassment or some combination of both.  
“Alfred, you git! What are you doing in my rooms without knocking!!”  
“I’m sorry- I,” and here he was in exactly the same predicament he was supposed to be making up for. “I thought you were up-“  
“I am up, idiot!” Arthur barked, standing and trying to shield the loom from view.  
“What is that?” Alfred craned his neck curiously.  
“Never you mind!” Arthur’s voice kept going higher and higher like a string about to snap.  
“It’s ok, I won’t laugh-“ Alfred said in a tone he intended to be encouraging (though privately he did think it was kind of funny. Maybe even as funny as the bunny slippers). Upon having this thought he looked down at Arthur’s feet.  
Arthur, who had up til now only been concerned with hiding his embroidery, saw what Alfred was looking at and let out a strangled squeal, bending so his dressing gown covered his slippers but inadvertently exposing the loom in the process, “Out!” he managed.  
Instead of obeying the command, Alfred took a step forward, carefully averting his eyes and politely setting the tray down on the table, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I made you scones.”  
“SCONES?!?” Arthur yelped in a voice definitely not befitting the heir of a future Lord of the Manor.  
“Yeah,” Alfred beamed proudly, “Made ‘em myself! Why don’t you show me what you’re making, Arthur, er, sir. Are you making a dress?” He meant this as an honest question, trying to infuse his words with interest but for some reason it only seemed to make the other man more upset. Arthur’s face was now an unhealthy shade of purple and he was shaking so that the ears of his slippers waggled comically.  
“No I’m not making a dress, you imbecile!!!” he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides until the knuckles were white.  
“What is it then?” Alfred took an inquisitive step forward. “I won’t laugh. Promise.”  
“It’s the bloody Bayeux Tapestry, idiot, what do you think it is?!?!”  
Alfred, taller and and at a better vantage point, could clearly see the mostly finished picture on the loom, “It is not the whatever-you-said, it’s- a badger!”  
And indeed it was. The small woodland animal was depicted in a patch of flowers, wearing a bonnet and sniffing something that looked like a daisy.  
“Artie,” Alfred unconsciously reverted to his friend’s childhood name, “It’s cute!”  
Arthur was now beyond words and in danger of passing out. The English did have a very low threshold for humiliation, Alfred noted as he went to scoop Arthur up and carry him across the room where he deposited him gently upon the bed. To his surprise, Arthur did not fight him.  
“Here,” Alfred dragged the tea table over to the bedside, “Have a scone.”  
Arthur, shaking and crimson, glared at Alfred but didn’t hesitate to grab a scone, smother it in jam and cream, and stuff it into his face where he munched it angrily.  
Alfred adjusted his glasses nervously, “So?”  
When Arthur had swallowed the initial scone his eyebrows knit like wrestling caterpillars and he looked as if he were contemplating shoving the sugar spoon into one of Alfred’s expectant blue eyes, “It’s delicious… Idiot,” he muttered and reached for another. 

The weather warmed and it was finally feeling like English summer. Alfred had been wary of doting too much on Arthur. ‘Best let him cool off a bit’ Cook advised after he related the scone debacle (leaving out the detail of the badger. Apparently it was no secret to the rest of the staff that young Master Kirkland enjoyed embroidery though no one let on that they knew).  
Alfred came into the kitchens humming, feeling encouraged by the turn in weather to something he felt more acclimated to. As soon as he looked at the chalk board where Cook kept the instructions for the day his smile faded. The roster showed, simply: Engagement Tea: petite fours, fresh fruit platter, asst savories. Champagne.  
There was that tremor in his stomach again, but instead of the tickling butterfly feeling to which he was recently accustomed this was an angry hummingbird sensation. He was not quite sure what to do. He stood there, frowning at the board until Cook came in with one of the lesser maids in tow.  
“Something t’matter?” she asked, piling the maid’s arms with various ingredients.  
“Nuh-nothing,” Alfred answered, his voice sounding small, “What’s this about an engagement party?”  
Cook was methodically hacking apart asparagus stems, “What do ye think? Young Master Kirkland’s got ‘imself a fine lady!” she exclaimed.  
“His parents got ‘im one, more like,” the maid muttered under her breath.  
“Speak up, lass,” Cook put down the knife and challenged the maid.  
“It’s only talk,” she started shyly, “But I heard ‘is parents are pressuring ‘im into it. That he doesn’t really want to marry a proper lady with titles ’n all that.”  
Cook picked up the knife again. It was obvious from the way the maid talked that she was sweet on Master Arthur. And Cook, always one for speaking her mind, snapped, “Of course ‘e’s going to marry a proper lady! What were ye thinking? That he’d lower ‘iself to dally with a scullery maid- someone so far beneath ‘is notice?! Perish the thought!” She hacked the head off an asparagus in one clean stroke.  
Alfred gulped.  
The maid looked flustered and scurried out of the room. Cook shook her head, “Of all the delusions of grandeur!” she clucked her tongue.  
“Am I needed in the kitchen today?” Alfred asked, suddenly wanting nothing more than some fresh air. “It’s only- that I noticed the, um, hedges could use some trimming and I thought-“  
Cook assessed him and Alfred was certain she’d say no, but she wiped her hands on her apron instead and gave him a rare smile, “It’s only a small party. The Master, Mistress and young Arthur. And the lady ‘erself o’course. Nothing fancy til the Engagement Ball next week.”  
“I can go then? Outside?”  
“‘Course. And good of ye to take note of the ‘edges. You’re a good lad, Alfred. A lad who knows ‘is place.” And she gave him that strange winning smile and resumed massacre-ing the asparagus.

Snip, a cluster of leaves fell to the ground as Alfred muttered to himself. He didn’t know exactly why he should be in such dour spirits on such a fine day. It was so warm he’d begun sweating and, as everyone was inside celebrating the engagement in the opposite wing of the house, he had removed his shirt.  
Alfred wiped his brow, scooting his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with an index finger. Normally he was quite good at groundskeeping, but today he was just off. Every shrub he tried to trim seemed to turn out in the shape of a badger. He’d won awards for this kind of thing back home in the adolescent gardening club he’d been forced into summer after summer, and had quite the green thumb. Spirals, topiaries, carousel horses- he was magic with the clippers. Not today, however. He’d been at it most of the afternoon and the unruly hedge before him (which he’d tried to manicure into a unicorn bust) was decidedly badger-esque.  
He growled and sauntered to the opposite side of the lawn where the most unruly greenery bordered the house, dabbing at his face and feeling the sweat trickle down his back as the sun beat down on his shoulder blades.  
Alfred attacked the wild clump of bramble with renewed vigor and swore he heard a yelp from inside. Could there be an animal back here? A real badger maybe?  
Snip, another clump of foliage dropped and Alfred gasped as the space was filled- not with the expected view of brick- but a pair of lovely green eyes, more verdant and deep up close when framed by the leaves.  
“Well, hello there,” an amused voice rang out as Alfred stumbled back. It was Arthur, looking a bit sheepish, his tone more subdued than his usual gruff and proper manner.  
“H- hi,” Alfred stammered, “I didn’t realize anyone was in the garden or I-” What was the young Master doing spying on him instead of at his engagement tea?? The thought was suddenly overtaken with the painful self-awareness of realizing he’d taken his shirt off in the stifling heat, thinking he was alone. He could feel his face turning the hue of last nights pickled beets. “Er-“  
Arthur took a step back as well, visible smile above his own undone collar. He put a finger in the gap and adjusted it, stating simply, “I needed some air.”  
Alfred saw the green eyes slide down to his own bare midriff and resisted the urge to flee into the honeysuckle and hide in sheer mortification. He looked around frantically for his cast off shirt- there it was, seeming miles away, hanging on the bannister of the pavilion.  
“Er— um.”  
“It’s cute, you know,” Arthur ducked under an arch in the hedgerow a couple of feet down and emerged, smiling in an uncharacteristically amused way.  
“What is?” Alfred assumed he was being made fun of.  
“The way you trimmed those shrubs into the shape of badgers.” Up close freckles were visible on his cheeks, “Before you destroyed them, that is.”  
Typical Arthur.  
“What about your tea? What about your engagement?” Alfred voiced his thoughts without thinking. The thing in his stomach had begun to uncoil and he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Wasn’t sure of anything except standing here feeling exposed and confused and Arthur with his collar undone and his eyes sparkling like emeralds on fire and-  
Without warning Arthur grabbed the hedge clippers from Alfred’s hand, flung them to the ground, and pulled the unsuspecting boy into the shadow of the overgrown arch where he covered his lips in a gentle and wholly unexpected kiss.  
It was over too quickly and Alfred reeled in surprise, his head swimming, everything around him a blur of green. He heard a voice close to his ear, so familiar yet speaking in a completely foreign way, “It’s ridiculous for me to marry someone I have no feelings for. My heart is-” and there he stopped, stepping back and clearing his throat.  
Arthur’s face had gone quite red and he smoothed his shirt nervously with one palm as he coughed again, “Well-”  
Alfred, feeling as if the butterflies in his stomach had abruptly turned to fireworks in his brain, gathered Arthur in a fierce bear-hug and kissed him back.  
“We’ll have to be careful about this,” Arthur warned, brows furrowed but his expression still amiable.  
“Of course!” Alfred nodded enthusiastically grabbing the clippers, both of them resuming their composure.  
“I’d best get back,” Arthur retreated toward the house but not before he threw an awkward but genuine smile over his shoulder.  
Alfred resumed clipping with renewed enthusiasm and by the time the sun set across the garden, a menagerie of badgers littered the lawn.

 

The next morning Alfred clambered down the stairs, Nantucket standing up in an unruly fashion, refusing to be tamed.  
“Alfred,” Emerson looked up from his buttered toast, scowling at the young footman’s hair, “It seems young Master Kirkland has put in a special request for your scones. You’d better hop to it if they’re to be ready by six.”  
“Of course!” Alfred got straight to work and by the time the bell rang Alfred had a platter so full he had to lower it to see as he walked. And for the first time in his life, Arthur found he had more scones than he could possibly eat.


End file.
